


Pogonotrophy

by GoldenTruth813



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Auror Ron Weasley, Beard Kink, Bearded Draco Malfoy, Beards (Facial Hair), Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Deepthroating, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, HP: EWE, Harry really likes his tea, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Neck Kissing, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Resolved Sexual Tension, Tea, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 01:25:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13870119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/pseuds/GoldenTruth813
Summary: Harry and Malfoy are Auror partners. Friends. Really good friends. That's all. And Harry is perfectly okay with that. Until Malfoy grows a beard and his entire life turns upside down.





	Pogonotrophy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TDCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TDCat/gifts).



> Thank you aibidil for the super fast beta. you're the best! <3

After nearly seven years of working with Malfoy, Harry was pretty sure he knew everything there was to know about his Auror partner.

He knew that Draco kept the highest quality Earl Grey in his desk drawer because he hated the PG Tips and Tetley tea that was stocked in the tea room. “Plebeian swill,” he’d say, raising an eyebrow at Harry, who had once been accused of trying to bankrupt the Auror department with the amount of tea he drank. He knew that Draco kept his favourite bone china tea cup in his top right drawer, along with a bowl of sugar cubes and a box of imported chocolates.

He knew that Malfoy never let anyone make him a cup of tea because he was convinced they’d ruin it, and a bad cup of tea apparently had the potential to ruin an entire day.

He knew that Malfoy’s reports were always tripled checked, that his tidy scrawl filled up the pages, and that not a single dot of ink spilled outside of the lines. He knew that Malfoy grumbled as he complained about Harry’s atrocious penmanship and lazy report skills as he hid his smile and fixed all of Harry’s reports without being asked.

Harry knew that Malfoy pretended to be busy on Friday afternoons and always left work early, but that he was going to visit his mother. Harry would see the bouquet of flowers hidden beneath Draco’s desk beside the box of macaroons. Harry knew Draco liked to keep his work life completely separate from his private life, so he never mentioned it, just made sure that no matter what cases they were handling, Draco was always free on Fridays to leave the Ministry at exactly five minutes after three, even if it meant Harry stayed in the office till half-past nine most Friday nights with casework that he never told Draco they needed to finish.

Harry knew that Malfoy hated that every single person he met looked at his forearm before his face, hated that his name was always bigger than his actions.

He knew that Malfoy liked his curry extra spicy and that despite claiming to hate coffee with the passion of a thousand bat bogey hexes, he secretly loved when Harry brought him some on stakeouts — three shots of espresso with whole milk and extra vanilla syrup. Harry knew that Malfoy would ask him if Harry got his coffee right, his eyes on Harry’s face as he took his first sip. He knew the way Malfoy’s tongue would dart out to lick the residual foam off his lip as he’d whisper, “You’re not completely useless after all, Potter.”

Harry knew that when they went out on a mission, when Malfoy’s wand was held aloft and his shoulders were tight with tension as adrenaline rushed through them both, that he was safe. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he could trust Malfoy with his life.

He knew that Malfoy had trouble sleeping, that his joined up writing always ended with undotted i’s, and that he sometimes ate nothing but lemon biscuits for breakfast. He knew that Malfoy had an affinity for the kinds of programmes Molly listened to on the wireless on Saturday nights, and that he spent all his free time training because he never thought he was good enough (even though he was better than every other Auror there, save for perhaps Harry).

Harry knew that Malfoy drove all the other Aurors completely fucking mental. He was bossy and opinionated and questioned every single decision everyone, including Harry, made. He was difficult to work with and had impossibly high standards. “He’s exactly like you, you difficult fucking wanker,” Ron had yelled just last month when Harry’d landed himself in St Mungo’s twice in one month protecting Malfoy.

Harry fucking loved it. He liked that Malfoy questioned him, liked that Malfoy didn’t assume Harry would do everything perfectly because of who he was. He also secretly liked that no one else could handle Malfoy but him. He liked that they were equally matched.

Harry knew that Malfoy was a particular, prickly tosspot.

Harry liked that about him. He liked it _a lot_.

Harry knew everything there was to know about Malfoy, and that was the problem, because he was pretty sure he was arse over tits in love with the wanker.

***~*~*~*~***

Malfoy had been away on holiday in the south of France for exactly ten days, and Harry was pretty sure he was losing his mind.

He hated his temporary partner, Andrew McKinnon. As a Senior Auror, Harry was supposed to be patient and graciously accept any trainees whenever his partner was unavailable, which happened fairly regularly since Draco was almost as bad as Harry about ending up in St Mungo’s. Normally Harry could deal with a temporary partner for a day or two. Neither Draco nor Harry were ever out longer than that, anyway, since they were both too stubborn to stay on bed rest.

But ten days was asking too much. Harry’d never known Malfoy to take a holiday. Ever. So finding out just a few weeks before Malfoy was set to leave that he was planning to use all his unused sick days to go bask in the sun in the south of France had left Harry feeling cranky and off center. He was used to Malfoy in his life. He didn’t want him to be gone.

Besides, Harry wasn’t patient enough to deal with someone who didn’t know when Harry needed a bit of quiet or when that when Harry had a headache coming on they should suggest an afternoon break for a pint and fish and chips. He didn’t like having a partner who didn’t know the left hook near the door was for _Harry’s_ cloak and that he hated when someone stole the crisps off his plate. Draco never tried to share Harry’s food. Harry hated when people touched his food.

Even more annoying was thing the fact that McKinnon never shut his mouth. He talked out loud while he wrote his reports — which were sloppy and gave Harry twice as much paperwork filling in the things he blatantly didn’t include out of sheer laziness — he slurped his tea like he thought someone might drink it right out from under him if he let his tongue disentangle itself from his mug. He ate crisps at his desk while he read, chomping loudly and reminding Harry uncomfortably of the way his Uncle Vernon ate, setting Harry’s nerves on edge and making him snappy and uncomfortable.

Worst though, worst of all was that he thought he was funny.

He made jokes about everything. All day. He made jokes in the middle of their mission on Wednesday — misinterpreting Harry’s pinched expression as repressed laughter and taking it as as encouragement to continue — made jokes while Harry was minding his own business trying to make his tea, made jokes while Harry was trying to read the debriefings Robards sent over on Monday morning. And he wasn’t fucking funny.

Harry missed Malfoy’s biting wit, the subtle jabs Malfoy made at him all day, the quiet way he narrated what everyone else in the office was doing, and his self-deprecating sense of humour. Malfoy was funny.

McKinnon was a gormless pillock.

Harry found himself counting down the days until Malfoy was set to return. Just a few more days and Malfoy would be back, McKinnon would be someone else’s problem, and everything would be back to normal.

Of course, Harry realised three days later when Malfoy returned to work, that wishing for things to be normal was usually a surefire way for his life to end up markedly abnormal.

***~*~*~*~***

It was exactly three minutes to eight on the day of Malfoy’s return when Harry’s life turned upside down.

Harry had his bottom lip between his teeth, head bent over a report he was supposed to have finished a week ago, wondering why he wrote the exact sentence in three different spots, when he heard the door open.

“How was—” But the question died on his lips. Malfoy’s usually bare face was no longer quite so bare. It was, in fact, covered in a _beard_. Harry had never seen the other man with a single lick of facial hair. Ever.

Malfoy had teased Harry many times since they’d become partners about his five o’clock shadow — a curse of Harry’s coarse black hair — or the stubble on his face when he’d overslept and been unable to shave before work on a Monday morning after a particularly long or lazy weekend. Harry’d got the impression that Malfoy didn’t like facial hair much. Not that _that_ was why Harry now always made sure to shave.

“Good morning to you, too. Lose all your manners while I was gone?” Malfoy laughed, that familiar teasing tone in his voice as he hung his cloak by the door — on the right hook where it belonged — before walking across the room to sit at the desk opposite Harry.

Harry opened and shut his mouth twice, then swallowed audibly, wondering how he was supposed to say anything back to that when Malfoy had just walked into the office after two weeks with a beard. A fucking beard. It was full, the hair thick and soft-looking around his jaw and upper lip. It was completely unexpected and something about it made Harry grip his quill hard enough it snapped in half.

Malfoy looked _good_.

“Did I miss anything important? I saw Robards on the way up the lift. He told me they paired you with McKinnon while I was gone. That must have been fun.” Malfoy looked like he was trying to hide his smile, the bastard. His lip quirked up in the corner. When Harry didn’t answer, Malfoy looked up with a frown from the papers he was shuffling around on his desk. “Something wrong?”

“You’ve got a beard!” Harry blurted out, immediately embarrassed at the pitch of his voice.

Malfoy looked surprised, his hand immediately flying up to touch his beard, which didn’t help Harry’s situation at all. Watching Malfoy’s long, pale fingers slide through the blond strands of hair on his face made Harry itch to reach across the desk and touch it himself. Fuck.

“You don’t like beards?” He continued stroking it.

“Erm...No. Yes. I mean — _fuck_. Beards are fine. They’re great. I just didn’t think _you_ liked beards.”

Malfoy looked amused again, dropping his hands to the top of his desk and quirking an eyebrow at Harry. “Wanting a beard and finding them attractive on someone else are entirely different things.”

Harry’s cheeks felt hot and he looked down at the broken quill in his hand. Splotches of ink covered his report, which would clearly have to be re-written. The office suddenly felt far too small.

“Want some tea?” Harry asked, already pushing away from his desk to stand up.

“You’re taking a tea break already? It’s only five minutes after eight.”

“I uh, just need some tea.” What he wanted to say was that he needed to do something with his hands or his mouth, and that he’d prefer that to include Malfoy’s soft-looking lips and his new facial hair. But Harry was pretty sure that wasn’t something he should say out loud.

“I, unlike some heathens, do not drink the complete and utter swill from the tea room, so I will pass.”

“Right. Well, it’s uh, good to have you back,” Harry mumbled, rubbing his face with his hands as he walked out of the office and towards the tea room, the small smile Malfoy gave in response to his words burned into his brain.

Harry spent the entire rest of the day unable to take his eyes off Malfoy — though that was not an entirely new predicament — but this time his body kept betraying him. He was only glad he had his Auror robes to hide his reaction to seeing Malfoy like this. He wished he could just believe it was that two weeks of sun had done him good — which it truthfully had, Malfoy looked tanner and more relaxed than he had in years — and Harry was pleased to see him looking well. But Harry knew the truth. Harry had always found Malfoy attractive, but he’d ignored it the same way he ignored the way his hands wanted to reach out and touch him when they stood particularly close or the way his brain sometimes formed the words _I think I’m in love with you_ without his conscious permission. These were things he was used to ignoring.

Draco Malfoy with a beard was not something Harry could ignore.

It was only then that Harry realised he did not in fact know everything there was to know about Malfoy. But he wanted to.

Fuck, he wanted to.

***~*~*~*~***

“Good morning,” Ron chirped cheerfully, sliding up beside Harry in the tea room as he reached past him for the boiling kettle.

“What’s good about it?” Harry grumbled, pulling out a tea bag from the box on the counter and dropping it into his mug with a heavy sigh. He debated for all of two seconds before grabbing another one and dropping that one into his mug as well.

It’d been two weeks since Malfoy returned from France looking like some kind of aristocratic bearded arsehole that Harry desperately wanted to shove up against the nearest wall and ravish. His reports had been worse than usual, he’d been waking up at night flushed and sticky — something that hadn’t happened since he was eighteen for fuck’s sake! And to top it off, Malfoy seemed to have developed a kink for his own beard, which he was always stroking. There were only so many times Harry could excuse himself to the loo for a wank or the tea room to try and think away from the maddening reality of Malfoy’s lips surrounded by pale hair that Harry wanted to feel pressed up against his cock or arse before he thought he might just fucking drop dead from sexual frustration.

Ron raised an eyebrow at him, pouring hot water in Harry’s cup for him. “So…”

“So nothing.”

Ron hummed loudly. “Don’t wanna talk about it then?”

Harry huffed, ripping open three packets of sugar at once. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Mhmm,” Ron agreed companionably, watching Harry out of the corner of his eye as he put one lonely packet of sugar into his own tea before adding in a heavy splash of milk.

“It’s true! I don’t want to talk about Malfoy.”

“Who said you wanted to talk about Malfoy?” Ron asked with a smirk, turning around to lean back against the counter and fixing his piercing blue eyes on Harry. Sometimes Harry hated Ron as much as he loved him. Fucking perceptive wanker. No wonder Ron made a good Auror. He had a friendly countenance that made one feel equal parts relaxed and like he was about to reveal your deepest secrets.

Even though Harry knew they were alone, he still found his eyes darting around the small room before returning to Ron. “Fine. Maybe it’s about Malfoy.”

“Isn’t it always,” Ron agreed, sipping his tea calmly. Harry hated people who were calm when he wasn’t — it made him feel agitated and annoyed — but he bit back his sarcastic retort knowing it wasn’t Ron’s fault he’d got himself in a snit over Malfoy. Again.

“It’s his fucking beard.”

“What about the beard?”

Harry’s hands tightened on his tea mug as he sighed, dropping into a chair and setting his mug down on the table lest he snap that in half too, like the pile of broken quills currently sitting in the rubbish bin hidden beneath his desk. “It’s just there, isn’t it?”

Ron raised an eyebrow in question.

“Well he’s not supposed to have one! Besides, how the bloody hell did he come back after only two weeks with such a thick beard? Even I can’t grow a beard like that in two weeks. And it’s just...fuller every blood day, isn’t it?”

Ron looked thoughtful. “Can’t say I spend as much time contemplating his beard as you do, mate. Although I reckon he used a beard growth potion. You know they sell them at the apothecary. You could pick one up if you’re feeling jealous and need to grow a rival beard. Unless you’re not jealous —” Ron waggled his eyebrows.

“Don’t say it.”

Ron laughed and waggled them again. “Unless it’s not that you want your own beard, you just want his beard on _your_ face. Or you know, other less public places.”

Harry groaned loudly, dropping his head into hands. He would never stop being grateful to Ron for his easy acceptance of his sexuality. Times like these, however, when Harry was doing everything in his power to repress his desires, hearing Ron say them out loud made Harry feel exposed.

“Does everyone know?” Harry mumbled.

“Know what? That you’re in love with Malfoy?” Ron walked towards him, patting him on the back. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure only the people who care about you have noticed.”

Harry blew out a breath, looking at Ron gratefully. “Thanks.”

Ron smiled, nodding to the door and picking Harry’s mug up off the table and handing it to him. “Back to the grind, mate.”

“Cheers,” Harry said with a wry grin, softly knocking his mug into Ron’s.

“Oh, by the way, Harry,” Ron said, right as they were passing through the doorway and back into the main office that was swarming with people. “Malfoy knows.”

Harry choked on his tea. “But you said—”

“I said the people who care about you have noticed,” Ron interrupted, voice heavy with meaning.

Oh, thought Harry, the buzz of people surrounding him fading to a dull background noise, his head spinning with dawning realisation.

 _Oh_.

***~*~*~*~***

“Potter, are you listening to me?” Malfoy barked, voice sharp with annoyance as he paced their office. He’d been pacing for over twenty minutes.

“No,” Harry answered honestly. Malfoy always seemed to know when he was lying anyway, so he didn’t see the point in pretending otherwise.

“No?” Malfoy spluttered.

Harry shrugged.

Malfoy stopped, managing to look equal parts annoyed and amused. “Well, at least you’re not a liar.” He sighed, lifting his hand to run it through his hair, making a few stray strands fall into his eyes. Harry couldn’t help but notice Malfoy’s beard was just a darker than his hair. He wanted to bury his face in it like the sun basking in the clouds. Fuck, he was screwed. “For fuck’s sake, Potter, we’ve got a deposition tomorrow with the Wizengamot about this illegal potions ring case. We need to be on the same page about the raid.”

“Right, sorry,” Harry muttered, twiddling his fingers in his lap. It wasn’t that Harry was trying to rile him up on purpose, it was just that well — _he was_. Malfoy’s eyes blazed with something intense when he was worked up, his hands waving in the air and his jaw clenching when he spoke. He looked powerful and authoritative and all Harry could think about was how much he wanted Malfoy to push him up against the wall, the hair on Malfoy’s face brushing against the sensitive skin of his neck as Malfoy pulled his ear into his mouth. Fuck.

“Do you need more bloody tea? Are you having withdrawls? You’ve not needed to make a break for the tea room or take a piss in nearly an hour.”

Harry tried not to smile. He was pretty sure Malfoy wouldn’t agree that the blush spreading across Malfoy’s face, just peeking out against the top of his beard and exceptionally attractive, was a good excuse for not giving a flying fuck about the potions ring review. He’d been over the case with Robards twice while Malfoy was gone; he knew exactly what he was supposed to do and he had no intention of letting the department or his partner down. Not that Harry telling Malfoy that had stopped him from demanding they review it again.

Harry tapped his fingers along the ridge of his knee, plucking at a loose string. “Why, you offering to make me some?”

Malfoy’s eyes widened and he sighed dramatically, cocking his head to the side and examining Harry as if he were something out of the ordinary. Harry felt his insides swirl. “Fine, I’ll make you some bloody tea. Obviously we’re not going to get anywhere until you’re drowning yourself in that excuse for a beverage the Ministry supplies us with.”

“Don’t forget the extra sugar,” Harry told him with a smile. If he was going to have a cup of tea, it might as well be made properly.

“Yes, yes, equal parts tea and sugar like a five year old. I’ve not forgotten.” Malfoy’s mouth twitched in amusement as he threw his hands up in apparent exasperation and stalked across the room. With a casual flick of his wand, the door flung itself open and he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like _Pillock Potter._

The second Malfoy was out of sight, Harry groaned, dropping his face onto his desk and wondering how he was going to make it.

It’d been difficult enough to ignore his feelings — his _desires_ — when he thought it was just him. But Ron’s words from three days before had been burning Harry inside like Fiendfyre. Every single thing Malfoy did, every single thing he said, took on new meaning now. The way he touched his beard when he talked to Harry, as if he knew Harry was watching, the way their thighs pressed together in the too-small booth Malfoy picked for them at the Leaky for lunch when there were plenty of other open tables, or the way Malfoy constantly leaned over him while double checking Harry’s reports.

Everything Malfoy did felt like an opening that Harry found himself both terrified and desperate to take.

Malfoy was difficult and demanding. He was stuck in his ways and could be impossibly hard to please. He was also wickedly smart and funny, and loyal to a fault. Malfoy didn’t seem to trust very many people, but he trusted Harry and that wasn’t something Harry was willing to risk on a whim. Malfoy was the best partner that Harry had ever had — one of the best friends he’d ever had, too. Harry didn’t want to lose that, didn't want to lose any of it. But he wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on like this.

He felt driven to absolute distraction.

Harry knew his limits, and he was definitely near his breaking point.

***~*~*~*~***

Harry’s breaking point came faster than even he had expected.

He’d made it less than a week after his conversation with Ron before things hit the point of no return. Or, as Harry later thought of it, the moment all of Harry’s self control became a distant memory.

It was a Saturday night and Malfoy was at Harry’s flat having drinks. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, since they often went out for drinks or hung out outside of work. In fact, Harry was pretty sure he saw Draco even more than he saw Ron and Hermione these days — they were busy with their new family, not that Harry begrudged them that — but either way, Harry spent more time with Malfoy than without him.

It was just that this was the first time they’d been back at his place since Malfoy had come home with a beard. And the sight of Malfoy sprawled across his sofa, sipping a glass of Firewhiskey, small droplets of the amber liquid clinging to the hair above his lip, was making Harry feel as if he might be losing his mind.

“You alright?” Malfoy’s eyebrow was raised in question as he lifted his glass to his mouth and took a long, slow drink.

“M’fine,” Harry lied, grabbing his own drink off the coffee table and downing the entire thing in one go, groaning loudly at the burn.

“Looking to forget something in the bottom of that glass?” Malfoy asked, sitting up straighter. He tucked his foot under his other leg as he scooted closer to Harry. “Or are you looking for a bit of courage?”

Harry’s ears buzzed, everything in the room blurring as his vision focused on the soft light reflecting off Malfoy’s face. Malfoy was so close, his tongue darting out to lick the residual alcohol from his upper lip, and something in Harry just snapped.

Before he had time to consider what he was doing, Harry dropped his empty glass to the floor, the sound of it shattering ringing in his ears as he moved his hands to Malfoy’s face, his hands cupping Malfoy’s bearded flushed cheeks as he leaned forward and dragged his tongue along the soft curve of Malfoy’s thin upper lip, sucking it into his mouth until he was sure every drop of Firewhiskey was gone.

Malfoy’s body went still, and when Harry pulled away he had a terrible, fleeting thought that he’d just ruined everything, when Malfoy let out a broken sound before throwing himself forward and crashing their lips together desperately, his hands on Harry’s chest as he pressed him back against the cushions. Malfoy grinned at him, grabbing the bottom on Harry’s jumper and tugging it up, nearly dislodging his glasses as he tugged it up over his head and tossed it on the floor.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry choked out, the breath leaving him in a rush as he found himself lying flat on the sofa cushions, Malfoy’s body above him as Malfoy began kissing his way down Harry’s neck. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Eloquent as always, Potter.” Malfoy’s words reverberated against Harry’s skin as Malfoy’s beard tickled against his Adam’s apple, and Harry was sure he was going to die from this. Malfoy’s hands were confident, fingers working the buttons of his jeans open as he sucked on the hollow of Harry’s neck.

Malfoy paused, ignoring the whimper of disappointment Harry let out, as he lifted his head to look in Harry’s eye. Malfoy’s face was flushed, his hair a mess from where Harry had been tugging on it and his lips look thoroughly ravished.

“Can I?” Malfoy asked, hands poised above Harry’s trousers. Harry nodded, lifting his hips to help him and the look that spread across Malfoy’s face made Harry’s cock ache with pressure — he looked positively victorious.

Harry raised himself onto his elbows, his chest heaving, and as Malfoy made his way down Harry’s chest, dragging his tongue down the soft planes of Harry’s stomach, pausing to suck on the skin just below his belly button until Harry began spewing incoherent sounds.

“Perfect,” Malfoy mumbled into the juncture between Harry’s hip and thigh, pushing to rub his face against the sensitive skin there, his beard scratching the skin as his breath blew out hot and heavy against Harry’s aching cock. Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever wanted anything the way he wanted Malfoy in that moment.

“Please,” Harry begged, not caring if he sounded desperate. He _was desperate_ and fuck it all, he wanted Malfoy to _know_ , wanted the other man to know exactly what kind of effect he was having on Harry.

“Please what?” Malfoy asked, poised on all fours above Harry’s cock. Harry could see a thick bulge in the front of Malfoy’s wool trousers, a sheen of sweat building along the bit of skin he could see beneath the undone buttons at Malfoy’s collar. Malfoy looked wrecked just from touching Harry and something about knowing that, about knowing that just being able to touch Harry was making Malfoy lose control made Harry feel fucking delirious with desire.

“Anything. _Everything_. Fuck,” Harry groaned, unable to think straight.

“Everything,” Draco breathed, shuddering out a breath above Harry. “I think I can handle that.”He looked at Harry for a long moment, neither of them moving, as if spelled still. But then Harry couldn’t stand it a moment longer, his hips arching up just so and making his cock brush against Malfoy’s beard and then Harry wasn’t sure which of them was making noises as Malfoy lowered his mouth all the way, engulfing Harry’s cock. Malfoy’s ministrations were purposeful, there was no other way to put it. He wasn’t slowly exploring Harry’s body, he was trying to make Harry come as fast as possible. Malfoy was bobbing his head and sucking, his fingertips gliding down to press at the skin behind his balls, as he hollowed his cheeks and took Harry’s cock all the way down the back of his throat.

Harry slammed his fists into the sofa. Malfoy’s beard was brushing against his balls and the base of his cock as he slurped at Harry’s cock. It was too much and Harry couldn’t even gasp out a warning before he was coming, his legs quivering and an embarrassingly loud moan falling from his lips. Malfoy didn’t seem to mind, though, just swallowed it all down, pulling back and lapping at the over-sensitive tip of his cock until Harry was close to tears.

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out except a pathetically loud whimper and he threw his arm over his face, feeling utterly exposed.

Malfoy let out a soft laugh and Harry didn’t need to be able to see his face to know what he must look like. He knew all of Malfoy’s laughs and that one was his favourite, that was Malfoy’s soft, pleased laugh — the laugh he let slip free when he got something he really wanted. It made Harry’s chest ache and he was almost afraid to move his arm, to open his eyes, to see if Malfoy’s face would reflect the happiness on his own.

“Potter,” Malfoy whispered, moving to lay on top of Harry and nuzzle his face into Harry’s neck. Harry groaned again, the material of Malfoy’s clothing rough against his bare skin and Malfoy’s beard tickling his skin. His nerve endings were going haywire.

“Nggh,” Harry huffed, leaving his eyes shut tight but moving his arm to Malfoy’s head, letting his fingers glide through the soft strands of his hair.

“Had I know all it would take to get you to make a move and shut you up was to grow a beard, I would’ve done it years ago.” Malfoy sounded amused. Harry liked the pitch of his voice, let it wash over him, making his cock stir with interest again already.

That made Harry open his eyes, lifting his head to look down at Malfoy, who removed his mouth from Harry’s collarbone to give him an intimate smile. “You mean you knew? _Years_?”

“Course I knew. You’re as subtle as a drunk hippogriff.”

Harry snorted, unable to feel offended while Malfoy’s fingers were wedging themselves between the sofa and his arse and digging into the flesh. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Malfoy’s hands stilled and his body tensed; he looked suddenly serious. “Didn’t want to risk scaring you away. I knew it had to be _your_ choice.”

“That’s, _oh_ ,” Harry said softly, trying to imagine what he would’ve done had Malfoy made the first move years ago. He’d wanted Malfoy for so long it was almost hard to remember a time before that, but he knew he’d got too comfortable in their routines, in their relationship, that he’d been too scared of ruining things. “I want you.”

Malfoy relaxed, looking pleased. “I did gather that from your reactions.”

Harry barked out a laugh, his cock already half hard again with Malfoy’s cock pressing firmly into his hip. “So, about before.”

“Yes?” Malfoy queried, his face hovering above Harry’s.

“Can we get started on the ‘everything’ now?”

Malfoy grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
